


Less than Tidy

by iloveyoudie



Series: Sure would be a bummer if he got shot and died... [7]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Idiots in Love, M/M, Modern Era, Rooftops, Sharing Clothes, Shenanigans, Sunsets, sharing space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23886871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: "Dirty clothes in the hamper," Fancy repeated quickly as if he suddenly produced some ancient knowledge from the depths of his mind, "Clean up after myself."The two very simple rules Box had requested of his space for the sake of peacekeeping after it had become very obvious very quickly that George was a less than tidy person.
Relationships: Ronnie Box/George Fancy
Series: Sure would be a bummer if he got shot and died... [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695859
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	Less than Tidy

Ronnie Box pulled yet another rolled up sock out from where it had been kicked under the bed and wondered what he’d done in life to deserve this. ‘This’, of course, was George Fancy making himself at home in his flat. ‘At home’ meant that Box had fished several pairs of socks out from under the bed when George complained he ‘had no clean ones’. It also meant he’d found a t-shirt balled up on the floor behind the toilet and almost immediately after had a jumper fall off the towel rack on the back of the door and nearly trip him. 

The offender had every right to be in his flat of course, but they spent most of their time at George’s and Box was rather particular about the cleanliness and _emptiness_ of his living space. 

When he’d brought Fancy here on that first night his intentions had been admittedly unsavoury. It wasn’t something that was meant to last. It was a fling. A bit of fun. Something that would piss off a bunch of people. Something that satisfied them both in the moment. George was a tight little piece who couldn’t keep his hands off him, but once he’d started the ball rolling, Ronnie found he had just the same problem. By the morning-after the claws of something had already sunk in. Fancy’s failed sneak out, the way he looked at him, the smile on his face when he’d gotten his number. The little prick had lodged himself inside of Box’s head, latched on somewhere inside of his chest, and now letting him go wasn't much of a consideration at all. 

The state of his flat and the long term implications hadn’t really mattered in the first few weeks and their relationship since had become a practice in escalating stupidity on both their parts - _but damn if they weren’t having a good time..._

...most of the time. 

Right now he wanted to ring Fancy’s bloody neck. 

“George, bleedin’ hell, what have I said about just tossing your kit off wherever?” 

When George had finally been here enough to appreciate the space, he had told Box that his flat looked like ‘a posh lawyer’s office’ due to all the empty space and black leather and navy walls with silver and chrome accent, but Box didn’t need much, or want much from where he lived. Just clean lines and quiet and comfort. 

George was stretched across his sofa now, on his back, holding his phone up over his face. He was likely taking selfies while the telly was on, left unwatched and just a couple bars of volume too loud. There was an empty tea cup and crumpled packaging from his biscuits on the coffee table and crumbs surrounded him in a five foot radius. 

Box straightened at being ignored (or unheard, more likely), and pressed his fingers to his eyes a moment. With all the restraint he could muster (which was only enough not to get physical), he growled a loud and demanding, “FANCY!” 

"Sir!" George snapped-to on instinct, eyes wide and phone jostled in his surprise. It tumbled to land with a thud in the center of his chest. His eyes wandered over Ronnie’s face, gauging how serious this offense was and if it was a joke-out-of-it situation or a shut-up-and-do-it one, "Erm, yeah?" 

The socks and shirt and hoodie were thrown at George, hitting him square in the gob, and Box pursed his lips tighter not to smirk at the other’s kneejerk default to rank, “I’m keeping you around for that sweet ass, not to be your fucking mum.” 

Fancy clawed the clothing off of his face, licked his lips, and finally sat up while battling a smile. Damn the way his lashes fluttered as he mentally tracked his way through what had been said so far. He was damn pretty. And he got prettier, happier, more attentive, anytime Box acknowledged their relationship. Everytime he let those increasingly common We's and Us's slip through, George always caught it like a hawk. A fucking adorable, yet equally irritating, hawk. In this case though, he needed George to pay a bit more attention. 

"Dirty clothes in the hamper," Fancy repeated quickly as if he suddenly produced some ancient knowledge from the depths of his mind, "Clean up after myself." 

The two very simple rules Box had requested of his space for the sake of peacekeeping after it had become very obvious very quickly that George was a less than tidy person. 

George Fancy, Ronnie was sure, had never once in his life cleaned house outside of duress. It wasn’t a maturity thing or even pure laziness. He was positive that George simply didn’t notice most mess and didn’t quite hold himself to any sort of standard. He existed, always, in the current moment only. He never thought of cleaning unless it was An Event, and probably never would. He certainly seemed to know enough to make himself presentable for work and to keep his flat neat for visitors should they arrive pre-planned. He’d witnessed him rushing around at the last minute to straighten his flat and kick piles of clothes under the bed when he’d shown up early. With George it was out of sight and out of mind, and while in most things Box could support that logic, he couldn’t when it came to his own flat. 

Box had a twin brother, a brother both very much like him but also very different. Their family never had a lot of money and so they had shared space for much longer than was comfortable, and Ronnie had spent most of his youth and teen years drawing an imaginary line down the center of their small cupboard of a bedroom and pushing all of his brother’s hobby messes across this divide. It was bad enough that they shared a face, they shared clothes, they shared _everything_. Ronnie didn’t like clutter. Ronnie didn’t like mess. He didn’t even like knick-knacks or decor if there wasn't a practical purpose for them. Even as a kid, he’d been setting up boundaries and he hadn’t stopped since. 

It wasn’t that he was unreasonable, it was just that he had standards of his own making. 

George looked down at his chest covered in crumbs, at the table and his rubbish and the radius of disaster around him, and then like a lightbulb had lit in his brain, he grinned and hopped to his feet. He darted forward, laundry in one hand and his biscuit packaging clutched in the other, and he planted a swift kiss on Box’s mouth, one that soothed his ire just enough, “Sorry, babe. How bout I’ll hoover?” 

And then he was gone, flitting away into the bedroom to put his clothes in the hamper or his duffel or something, and then swinging by the bin to dispose of his rubbish. 

“Look at me,” He said as he passed again, snatching up the television remote to turn the TV off, “being all clean and responsible. I should get a reward.” 

“We’ll see about that when all’s prim and proper, eh?” Box snorted, putting on his annoyance a little longer. 

“Where is it by the way? The hoover. Here?” George flung open the only door in the windowless far wall right next to Box’s ‘desk’ which was just a small card table with nothing but a laptop on it. There were some coats hanging, a suede leather thing from a couple of years ago and a poofy down one that George had never seen Box wear in his life, and underneath sat a hoover that looked barely used. Behind all that… there was another, smaller, door. 

“What’s this?” 

“What’s what?” 

“This little uh..” George poked his head back out, wheeled the hoover out of the way, and pointed to a small door with a latch, painted all white to match the cupboard walls, “John Malkovich door.” 

“What's a John Malkovich door?" Box approached with arms crossed. 

“I don’t know. I think there’s a movie with John Malkovich and a tiny door? My parents always say it so… my family call every wee door a John Malkovich door. Anyway, where’s this go?” 

“Laundry room is on the other side of that wall, I don’t know. It’s probably for maintenance. Leave it be, George, and get cleaning.” 

Ronnie really should have known better because as soon as he turned his back he heard shuffling and George’s voice coming again, this time muffled behind what he could only assume was a wall, “It’s pretty wide in here!” 

“George, get out of my fucking wall!” 

There was no answer. 

“George?” _Fucking, christ._ Box moved to the cupboard and crouched. There was definitely a small door, it was definitely open, but George Fancy was gone. No hide nor hair of him. No trail. 

Now, Box lived in a rather basic block of flats. It was the sort that was nothing more than a square cornered set of long beige hallways connected by stairs. He was on the second floor, on an end, with a neighbor across the hall and their floor’s small coin-op laundry in the room adjacent. The building offered minimal security and nothing more than basic amenities and a very simple floor plan and that suited him just fine. What didn’t suit him was when his boyfriend ( _shit, that's what he was, wasn’t he?_ ) disappeared into his walls like some sort of over-sized rodent. He was probably getting stuck by now, he’d hear a knock from behind the toilet any minute and they’d have to call the landlord… it’d cost a damn fortune and how did you even explain that...? Probably gnawing through wires.. the little psycho.. 

“Oi!” George’s voice came distantly a few long minutes later but not from the little door, “Shithead!” 

Box moved towards it, across the entire room, around the walls initially, until he got to the window which stood open to let in the breeze. He looked out, down to the street, then side to side. 

George’s bubbling laugh came from above him, “Up here!” 

Box turned his head to look above him and found a pair of battered converse attached to spindly jean clad legs that kicked idly in the air and against the plaster of the building’s exterior. Leaning over to meet his gaze was a dusty looking George with a stupidly fond grin on his face, and despite his irritation, that laugh and smile always made something warm flood inside of him these days. 

He’d really gone mad, putting up with all this. 

“What in the hell are you doing?” Box sat his arse on the windowsill and reached up to curl his hand around a naked ankle (no clean socks, remember?) and give a tiny tug. 

George’s fingers gripped desperately around the edge of the roof above and he let out a surprised and mildly panicked laugh, “Whoah! Hey!” 

“Yank you down and hang you by your bloody ankles if you want to act a fool-” Box gave him a smirk. He tugged again. 

“No no no!” George laughed, “Come up here! There’s a door..” 

“I know. That’s how normal idiots get to the roof,” Box released the ankle. 

George’s legs tucked up again, folded in front of him until just his boney knees were visible over the edge and he grinned down, “Well, it turns out I’m no _normal_ idiot. Also not coming down til you come and get me.” 

And then he disappeared again. 

Box cursed, grabbed his keys, and pursued him. Down the corridor, past the other flats with their unremarkable doors and tarnished brass numbers, to the far end of the building where the stairwell was marked with a red ‘EXIT’ sign above it and instead of going left and down to the street, he went right and up a narrow cement stair that ended at a door with a hand written sign taped to it - something about an alarm that would sound if the door was opened - an alarm that Box knew very well didn’t exist. 

He pushed his way out of the heavy metal door, blocking it from closing by rolling up the grody weather beaten mat that had been there for years and jamming it in the doorway. Despite the sun sinking in the distance, the surface of the roof was still a bit warm from baking in the light all day, but the wind was kicking up and there was nothing much to shield from that. The roof was an unremarkable flat expanse of weird patch jobs and gravel and weather beaten ventilation equipment. He had to move past several of the dull silver cubes before he found George sitting on the raised edge of the roof, away from the side his flat was on, and instead facing the where the sun was dropping low on the horizon. He was right on the precipice, feet dangling and kicking lightly, and his hands braced beside him along the thin edge. When George heard Box’s feet on the gravel, he turned and smiled again and Ronnie felt his chest twinge once more. 

Maybe he was dying. Maybe that's what all this chest tightening and stomach swirling and strange nervousness and the hot flushes were. He’d come down with something. That had to be it. 

He’d be dead in a week. 

“You’re foul, mate,” Box pinched at George’s tee, watched the cotton snap lightly and send up a cloud of dust and who knows what else. He ruffled his hair as well, sent some dust balls out into the air, “How’d you even get out here?” 

“You don’t want to know,” George snorted, “Wish I hadn’t now, but once I was halfway I figured, why not see it out?” He blinked up against the harsh orange of the setting sun, “Your building’s got rats though. And there's a big hole over in that corner.” 

“Tell me you didn’t crawl through a rat’s nest or summat...” 

“I like rats! Jim has rats.” 

“I know all about Lil Jim and the lads. That’s not an answer,” Box sighed and curled an arm around George’s waist, lifting him with little effort up off the roof edge. He swung him around and back onto the roof proper to set him on his feet. George ‘oofed’ a bit and flung his legs wide to not hit anything, but allowed himself to be set down without struggle. “You aren’t going to sit with me?” 

“Not on the edge like that. You’re mad.” 

“Don’t like heights?” 

“Don’t like gusts of wind blowing you away like a dandelion puff.” 

“Oh, am I a delicate flower?” George smiled and pressed against him. 

“No, you’re right. What I meant was blown away like a bit of rubbish in a gutter..” 

George laughed and turned in his arms and put them around him and press his back to Box’s chest. With the sun fading fast, the wind picked up more and there was a hint of rain on the chilly breeze. George shivered and Box, without thinking, pulled off his flannel work shirt and he put it around George’s shoulders to leave him in only his vest. George shivered again but this time he sort of nuzzled down, wriggled so he could stick his arms through the sleeves and then tugged them up to pop his hands through the wrists. He turned his face to sniff the collar but Ronnie was used to that by now. 

The building wasn’t very high but the view was alright enough. Of course the other flats and houses around them blocked a lot of the far off skyline but they could see a good distance away and in Oxford there were always a bit of trees somewhere not far off that cut down on the congestion. 

George had produced his phone again, this time taking a picture of the view and Ronnie looked out into the distance, at the sky gone orange and red and then pink, and he rested his head sideways against George’s in the momentary silence. He heard the phone shutter sound a half a dozen times before he glanced down and realized that George had taken a picture of the two of them as well. Sneaky bugger. 

“I wish I could get onto my roof,” George said, “We should come up here more often.” 

“Why?” There was nothing comfortable here. It was either too cold or too hot, and he sort of hated the weird unsteady feeling of a lot of roofs under his feet. Even though this building was a bit of a cement block, he’d never quite shaken the unease of too many youthful excursions to local abandoned buildings that had ended with him popping a hole through an unsteady floor or an old roof. The last one had been a broken leg that had him laid up for weeks and with his height and weight Morse's favorite word for him, lummox, came readily to mind. 

“Put a couple of lawn chairs up here and maybe some plants..” 

“Oh you fuckin hipster,” Box snorted. “Doin it for the ‘gram?” 

“Aesthetics..” George said with a lift of his nose into the air, “You know I was emo as hell when I was a teenager. Eyeliner. Black hair dye.. Skinny jeans. _Aesthetics, Ronald_." 

“Your jeans are still skinny.” 

“Oh no,” George turned his head with a glance, “We’d shop in the girls section. They were like a fucking fight to get on.” 

“You’re fulla shit." 

“Not joking,” George insisted, “Never quite had the balls for the scene hair but I def dyed it black and put some like streaks in sometimes. Washable though, my mum woulda skinned me.” 

“So what phase are you on now? The Horny Twenties?” 

“Ohhh,” George tilted his head with a gravelly cough, “Horny teens was worse.” 

“So you were a toothpick of an emo with a permanent hard on?” 

“Hey hey hey, Emos can pull mate. But usually only other emos," George laughed in that bubbling pleasant way again and Box could feel it rise through his entire body. 

“All rutting teenager stink and shitty hair dye and smeared eyeliner?” Box grimaced, “Christ, I’m glad I missed all that.” 

George ran his arms over Box’s which still looped around his waist, “I did alright in the long run. And now I pulled you so I can’t be that bad at it.” 

“Certainly wouldn’t have pulled me with no emo hair..” 

George turned in his arms again, the novelty of the sunset gone as quickly as it had come, and he lifted to sink his hands into Ronnie's hair and pull him into a kiss. The romance wasn't entirely lost on Box, George wearing his oversized shirt and clinging close for warmth, sunset over the Oxford skyline, the way George made his heart beat a little faster and the addictive way he tasted and smelled and felt… but he was also covered in dust and probably rat shit and- 

Box broke away and lifted his eyebrows, "Y'aint getting out of cleaning my boy." 

George's eyes darted sideways and his head lolled dramatically. 

"C'mon," Box backed away, taking his hand and tangling their fingers together so he could guide him back the proper way, "Now you've got to hoover _and_ shower." 

"You know," George followed easily, hands disappearing into the lengthy sleeves of the flannel, "Come Bonfire Night this would be a good spot to see the fireworks." 

He hadn't thought of that and George wasn't wrong, "You may be onto something. Maybe we will bring some chairs up." 

George grinned and darted for the door suddenly. Box yelled and leapt after and then they had a brief tussle wherein they tried to lock eachother out on the roof. It ended with them both grappling one another as they piled through the narrow door, and another snog just inside and pressed against the cement wall. Box pinned George with his hips and George hummed and ran his hands over Ronnie’s exposed arms. 

"You're trying to distract me," Ronnie rumbled, "Not gonna work. Tidying up and then a shower." 

George nipped his lip and batted his lashes again, "Don't forget my reward." 

"Not exactly sure what for…" Box leaned in close, nuzzled George’s ear, and murmured, “But may do for a shower together.” 

That was enough to get George moving. He ducked Box’s framing arms and slid away to jog down the stairs, oversized work shirt swishing around him. 

All he'd wanted was a tidy flat and now Ronnie Box was to be issuing rewards and planning fireworks nights that were months away and those tiny claws of affection sunk in a bit further minute by minute. 

As he turned to follow, he remembered that first night again. How he’d said he’d ruin George. Because he was big and he was bad and he was trouble… but it seemed, in the long run, he'd gotten it the wrong way round. 

**Author's Note:**

> im not sure whats happening anymore i may have lost control of them  
> (did we ever have any control in the first place?)
> 
> HES IN THE WALLS


End file.
